Squint
by gschelt
Summary: Holly J. and Alex meet at a party and, reluctantly, find they get along better than either would have thought. Holly J./Alex, a little femslash. oneshot.


_**Author's Note:** Well honestly, I have no idea what this is. I wrote it all in one sitting and I didn't really have any plan except for that I wanted to write Holly J. for once and I thought she and Alex would be super duper cool. Oh, and I decided to make Jane gay in this story. Cause, you know... she totally is. It's only a matter of time. Anyway, I like how it ended up. Nice and simple. Review please&thankyou. :)_

* * *

You notice her kind of squint at you when you walk through the door, surprised at your presence. She must know what kind of girl you are (the stuck-up kind), maybe has even heard a thing or two mentioned about you, even though you've technically never _met_. It's all come to this, this strange assortment of company, through a motley chain of mutual friends. Spin, your boss and sort of friend, linked to Jay, who you can sort of tolerate, linked to her, who you sort of heard about when you transferred to Degrassi and by then she was on her way out anyway. Then of course there's more friends of friends of the considered parties, mostly a completely different crowd from yours and what you're used to. Then there's Jane, and you kind of know her, kind of get along because you both went to Lakehurst, both are friends with Spinner, both have (_had_) a thing for/with him. But even though Jane's broken up with him for almost two months now, for very sensitive and almost laughable reasons (really only one reason), they're still leaning there against the counter laughing at one another's animated stories. They're still friends. You're almost touched.

So the connections become even more apparent to you when Jane heads over to the couch in the corner to hang out with the girl who squints at you, as you sip your drink and brush off the shaggy-haired boys far below your social strata who lamely try their luck. Of course they would know each other, associate with each other. Birds of a feather, you know… The girl eyes you up and down appraisingly, and you know that were you completely in character you and your catty prejudices would be grossed out, but no. You're not blind, you can take her covert staring for what it is: puzzled distaste. Which is ironic, considering who _she_ is and who _you_ are. It's a curious reversal of roles, and the fact that she can sit over there judging you with her catlike eyes while she's the one who's fair socially crippled, to say the least… well, that much pride intrigues you and leaves you pretending not to notice or care, slightly disgruntled.

But soon enough the two of them are done whispering about you (_get a load of princess over there, what's she doing here? oh, that's holly j., she's okay._) and they're swapping jokes (crude and totally brotastic, no doubt). They laugh and sit with a comfortable ease that you _almost_ envy, but then again if you have to be like them to join the club, no thanks then. You scan the dim, overcrowded room impatiently, not entirely sure what you're even looking for, as you shift your weight from leg to leg. And you sigh, rather huffily in a way that makes you feel a bit stupid, and feel grossly out of place.

The whole thing really is quite ridiculous. And that strikes you by way of annoyance.

"Holly J.!" Jane calls over to you in that perpetually hoarse voice of hers, motioning and grinning effortlessly through that queer little septum piercing. …You mentally kick yourself for mentally calling it queer; sure, you're not exactly sensitive when it comes to being politically correct but, well, this time it sort of caught you off guard. You really didn't even mean it like _that_. You just grit your teeth while you pick your way towards the couch and pray you don't accidentally let any phrasings slip that might possibly have double meanings.

"Sorry, you just looked like you were dying of boredom up there," Jane says while she leans back and you take a seat to her left. You roll your eyes and give a rueful half-smile, glancing over at the assortment of slightly greasy guys with piercings who you'd had to keep at bay.

The other girl, sitting on Jane's right, looks over at you and follows your gaze with a knowing smirk. "Don't sweat it, princess, if you're hanging over here with _us_ they're not gonna be bothering you anymore."

Jane laughs aloud and shifts her weight, putting a sneakered foot on the coffee table and taking a swig of her drink. "Probably the first time Holly J. will ever have a good reason to be guilty by association like this," she chuckles. "Hey, do you know Alex?"

You frown for a second, a bit put-off by the realization that's being made so quickly. That the two of them are right, that you probably look like, well, _one of them_. That that's a good thing in this circumstance. It's a grudging acceptance, and you shift rather uncomfortably. You're rather annoyed with this girl for having brought it up in the first place.

"No," you say quickly, coolly. "Holly J. Sinclair," you announce brusquely, extending your hand. She takes it slowly, still smirking at you, almost maddeningly in the way she does so.

"Alex Nunez," she chuckles, coal eyes flickering to Jane as if to ask if you're _totally for real_. And for some reason, this girl thinks your manners are _funny_. She thinks that a handshake and a _semi_-formal introduction like this are _silly, _it's plain to see in her amused expression. You pull your hand back and force an obviously fake smile as you lean back, bored and irritated. You must have been delusional when you decided to come along to this party, because now here you are sitting in the corner watching a bunch of sweaty losers grind to retch-worthy screamo music. The only people you know are either in the kitchen downing shots, cheering like gorillas, or sitting beside you making you feel like an idiot. That last part does _not_ jibe well.

So you mutter an excuse and exit to use the bathroom. You find it at the end of a dark hallway, enter, and lock yourself in. It's a pitiful excuse for a grooming area; the toilet is an abomination and the other porcelain and metal appendages are corroded and covered with a film of what must be rust and hair. The only safe thing you can find to do is fix your hair in the speckled mirror. For who, you haven't the slightest idea. But you might as well do something while you're in here, and you might as well be sure you look good.

You pick your way back to the couch, frowning slightly at the recurring onslaught of obnoxiously loud music and stagnant cigarette smoke, slightly disappointed at how grouchy you've gotten in one short hour. You're prepared to drop down next to Jane and attempt a conversation to brighten your mood, but the middle section of the couch is empty. Instead… you look around the throng of black T-shirts and find Jane hiding among the standing bodies, smiling slyly with her hands on a blonde pixieish girl's waist as the two dance. You shut your mouth and try not to stare, wondering if Spinner's possibly doing the same or if he's too hammered by now. It wouldn't surprise you if he were so far gone by now that he's turned on by his ex partaking in the girl-on-girl "action".

"You gonna sit down?"

Caught a bit off guard, you look around and find Alex sitting in the exact same place you left her when you went off to use the bathroom, looking up at you with a tired smile on her mouth. You open yours to answer, but you rather stupidly just drop down on the couch instead. The first thing/person you'd noticed when you arrived, and you'd forgotten she was even there. How's that for moronic. … The fact that you're letting this smug older girl needle you and fascinate you, not the fact that you'd _forgotten_ about her, perish the thought.

You're expecting her to say something sly and cliché like _I don't bite_, not necessarily even flirtatiously (probably not even), but instead she crosses her arms and watches the action looking just as bored as you. And, curiously enough, it's you who speaks first. Damn.

"Is this really even your scene?" you say coolly without really planning the words. Sometimes, it seems you really do much better when you let yourself take over and run off instinct. Be your aloof, predictable self… but that's not really even accurate, given the fact of your current company. No, speaking to her isn't part of your norm. But you're stubborn, after all, even to yourself.

She looks at you curiously, considers you observant (which is, in fact, accurate). "Honestly, no," she admits carelessly. "Too many people, too loud, just too much. Anyway," she goes on, raising an eyebrow, "I could ask you the same thing."

You roll your eyes. "You already know the answer."

She tips her head back and smiles ruefully. "Yeah, you're not exactly part of this Smells Like Teen Spirit crowd. I can't remember the last time I've seen pastels at one of these." She indicates your blouse with a nod.

"Well, at least I know I'm not coming back after one night of hating it," you counter, instinctively again (and this is how you finally feel more at ease, not thinking so much). "Am I correct in assuming you'll be sitting in this same corner next Saturday?"

And then she chuckles, the first time she's done so that you don't feel like she's cynically doing so at your expense. "You have a point. I guess I'm just a creature of habit." Instead of looking depressed, like you might expect from someone like Spinner who's been treading the same tired path since he graduated, Alex smiles sheepishly, nonplussed, and leans back.

"Then, why don't you do something better with your time?" you challenge, unable to put a finger on why you're interested or concerned in the first place. "I'm sure you can find something better to do than hang around this crowd of deadbeats for kicks. No offense," you add briskly, waving your hand dismissively as a vague form of apology. For some reason you really don't think she'll even mind your condescension. Not when she herself could so easily dish it out.

"None taken," she says with a shrug. "And anyway, I'm pretty sure I've got nothing better to do unless you're offering." Of course it's not even a come-on, from the way she doesn't even seem to be trying (though that could be her well-practiced method) and from the way you're still getting to feel a little more comfortable around her, strangely enough. It's a banter that's as heavy on the other end as it is on yours, almost like talking to yourself.

You don't even have to politely (or impolitely) tell her _no, you weren't offering_, because you're pretty sure she doesn't need to hear it. And that's kind of nice how you don't have to be your usual self always hurting people's feelings. Well, it's more like it's nice how this girl's self isn't so vapid like everyone else who always gets so hung up. She's cool and casual to the point of sourness. No, instead you both look out at the dancers. Jane and the blonde are nowhere in sight… they must have slipped away while you were talking to Alex.

"You and Jane aren't…" you interrupt the pause, moving your index finger in a back-and-forth _together_ motion.

"No," Alex says, smirking. "Just friends with a lot in common."

"Don't you guys do that whole friends with benefits thing?"

And for the first time Alex laughs, actually _laughs_. It reaches her eyes. "By us guys, you mean gays?" she snorts. "Urban legend, it's totally just a stereotype."

You smile. "Well, would you?" you continue your matter-of-fact and unapologetic questioning. "With Jane, I mean?"

Alex grins, looking from side to side in amused disbelief. "I don't know, sure. She's really not my type, though. She's too much like me."

"What is your type then?"

By now Alex tilts her head back, still laughing wryly. And by now she's sitting cross-legged, facing you, and you're doing the same. "What is this, twenty questions? Have you never met a lesbian before?"

You wouldn't think so, would you? But it's not so much a fascination with the Sapphic lifestyle, or even so much a _Sapphic_ fascination with your conversant. You're just pleasantly surprised that you've found someone to talk to at this idiotic party, pleasantly surprised that she's no longer squinting at you and that you don't have to feel annoyed with her confidence anymore. And after a bit more chatting she learns that you're on Spirit Squad, and she smirks (she does that a lot) and tells you her first girlfriend was a stuck-up bitchy cheerleader type too, and you scoff at her and say something snappish in reply. But it's all in good fun, really, because as twisted as it is, you really enjoy snarky banter like this. She does too, you can tell.

And then you don't know why you get so adventurous, but you say you want some fresh air. If it was anyone else you'd play your game and march out with your head held high, waiting to be followed. But instead you glance down at Alex, sitting there with her eyebrow raised, and say "Come on." It's actually kind of refreshing to have to push for once, instead of pull along, like you have to do with most of the people in your life. Anya, for example, who never challenges you, who would never ask a question by way of raised eyebrow.

So then the two of you are walking around the block and really you have no ulterior motives besides getting some fresh air. And she knows you're not some moronic bicurious girl out to put the moves on her or anything, which she teases you about anyway. You just walk and complain about things and laugh at her biting humor – the way she cuts people and things down to the quick without batting an eyelash – actually _laugh_. It reaches your eyes.

She says something about how all the other girls that share her sense of humor are all potheads, and for some reason the simple implication behind the admission is the best genuine compliment you've received in a long time. Funny, how a remark like that is so much better to hear than a thousand "_nice hair today_"s from Anya. You say something nice, something genuine, in return but you can't remember what you said just ten seconds after she says thank you because you're just so immersed in how at ease you feel.

The two of you reach a street corner, the house you came from glowing in sight just half a block away, and you pause for just one second. "Oh, fuck it," you say distractedly, brow furrowed, and you put your right arm around her neck and move in and you kiss her.

Alex is still for a second, probably caught off guard by your sudden, rash action, but you can feel her mouth smile against yours as she begins to work her mouth against yours and you feel her smooth chest lightly pressing against yours. You're slightly pleased, at least, that you're not drunk and you're not sloppily experimenting or anything ridiculous like that. Well, maybe it's experimenting a _little_, but you're not sloppy. Not in the literal sense at least, because by now you're kind of maybe frenching and it's a damn good kiss if you may say so yourself. Maybe your thoughts are a bit careless, but that would be a snap diagnosis from someone who doesn't even know you. And you know yourself, you're not sloppy.

You pull back and bend over primly to retrieve your clutch, which you'd dropped. And when you straighten back up, smiling defiantly, Alex is sort of squinting at you and sort of laughing, really _laughing_.

"About time, kid," she chuckles, and she leans in to capture your lips again, threading her fingers in yours and twisting your arms out restlessly, and still in your mouth she's throatily laughing. It reaches her eyes and, in no time at all, yours too.


End file.
